I had agreed to let her come, much to Wensem’s amusement. He still wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.
“Bridge collapsed,” Wensem said. “Whole thing just pancaked in after heavy rains.” He slapped his hands together. “Applehome was only there because of caravan travel. When the bridge went out, most folks just up and left. Not much there now but the river and the skeletons of buildings.”
“And squatters,” said Taft.
“And bandits,” I added.
Samantha nodded, the murky light illuminating the left side of her oval face. Her curly dark hair, cut simply and ending at her shoulder, framed her face. Big dark eyes. Dusky skin. A narrow nose atop full lips. Light lines teased from the corner of her mouth revealing hints of a harder side.
“So that leaves us…where?” Samantha chewed the end of her pinky.
I raised my glass of hard cider. “We keep waiting.”
Wensem shook his head ponderously. “Shaler will be furious.”
“She doesn’t have much of a choice,” I said calmly.
Taft hefted herself into the empty seat and called for the bartender. When he came over, she ordered a whiskey and a beer, indicating she wanted both the same size. The bartender blinked and then nodded, leaving to fetch her order.
Taft hadn't been with us very long—maybe two months. Wensem and I hired her based on the recommendations of a few old friends, and to impress the travelers we guided eastward. She had proven herself to be quite the storyteller, and not half bad as a chuck. I was grateful to get some decent meals on the road, not just the endless supply of hardtack and beans our last chuck had passed off as trail food.
Taft was human, with tan skin and short brown hair. She was as big as a barn and twice as heavy. A pair of huge breasts the size of prize pumpkins were carried atop a stomach as big as a cargowain. When she waked she strutted, each step kicking up clouds of dust like a bull. She drank harder and heavier than any of us, which instantly endeared her to my crew. With a quick wit and a jovial personality, she had become a fixture at laager.
She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice barely audible over the noise. “There is another solution.”
Wensem and I looked at each other. Our eyes met; we both knew what the chuck was about to suggest. Samantha looked at us blankly, then turned to Taft. “What are you talking about?” she asked.
Taft just grinned a wide smile and leaned back.
“Wal, what is she talking about?”
Wensem began to shake his head.
“No, no, no,” I said. “You know the stories. We all know the stories. Even if you don’t believe all the garbage about cannibals and ghosts, it doesn’t matter. Roaders are superstitious. No crew is going to gladly march down that trail.”
“What trail?” Samantha asked, frustrated. Behind her, the crowd cheered as a jai alai team on the monochrome finished the game.
“I’m just throwing it out as an option,” Taft said innocently, leaning back in her chair and taking a swig.
“When’s the last time you’ve even heard of a company go down that road?” I said. “They’d mutiny. They’d leave. It’s not up for discussion. Don’t suggest it to the crew or the client. Carter’s cross, Shaler does not need to hear about this.”
“I haven’t suggested anything,” Taft said, raising both hands defensively.
“Suggest what?” demanded Samantha.
Taft grinned at me sardonically, motioning with a hand as if to say, “Go on.”
I glowered at Taft. She chuckled, shook her head, and drained her beer.
“She is suggesting the route no one ever takes,” explained Wensem, his voice deadpan.
“You boys ain’t scared now, are you? I thought you were hard. Trail-worn,” said Taft from around her beer-sized whiskey.
“Maybe, but we’re not stupid,” I said coolly.
Arms crossed across her chest, Samantha waited.
I looked slowly from Taft to Wensem and then to Samantha before closing my eyes and breathing out the answer.
“She’s suggesting the Broken Road.”
TWO
MY OLD MAN WAS FOND OF SAYING, “FOOLS RUSH IN WHERE THE WISE FEAR TO TRAVEL.” He was usually referring to some business deal, but the words echoed in my mind as I walked with Samantha toward our boarding house across town in the Campbell neighborhood.
The dust of the day had died down, and it had left a clear evening. Above us, the purple sky was broken by pinpricks of stars and tempered by the gas lamps that lined the streets. A few clouds—black shadows in the sky—ducked behind the towers to the south of us.
The narrow alley outside the tavern was lined with carts and stalls, hawking everything from food to fabric. The scents of roasting meat and simmering broth made my stomach rumble. The sound of a horn drifted from somewhere far away.
Samantha was kind enough to wait as I bought flatbread stuffed with peppers and spiced venison from a dauger, his stall immaculate, the sizzle of onions and peppers a song on the evening breeze.
“Is the Broken Road that dangerous?” Samantha asked when we started moving again. The warmth in her voice belied hints of nervousness.
“Depends who you ask,” I said through mouthfuls as I limped along. The vendor had done a perfect job. The meat was tender and spicy with a rich gamey flavor that overpowered any dust that happened to cling to it.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s more rational folk like myself who don’t buy into all the supernatural nonsense but have their own reasons to avoid the Road, and then there’s the superstitious roaders who believe the crazy stories.”
“Like what kind of stories?”
I chuckled. “Again, depends who you ask.”
We walked slowly down the street, letting ourselves meld into the crowd. Ancient brick buildings seven or eight stories tall rose around us. We passed under raised glassed-in walkways that allowed Syringans to pass between buildings without having to press through the crowds on the street below. Most were covered with graffiti: curses in Strutten and even a few in Cephan, a few rough branch shapes left over from last year’s Bresh decorations, the five-fingered hand with the sword in the palm—the symbol of the Purity Movement—was intermixed with circular symbols I didn’t recognize, a strange horned eye, undoubtedly the symbol of yet another of the territory’s strange faiths. As if on cue, a column of Curwenites marched along in their blue jumpsuits, following a twisted icon held by a dauger at the head of the column. It was a bizarre construct welded together from smaller statues scavenged from other faiths. A pair of large gray bufo’anur dressed in the battle robes of mercenaries-for-hire grunted displeasure as they passed, but we paid them no mind. You see weirder things in Lovat. Besides, we were in no hurry.
“You won’t find the route on any map, not anymore. The road, or what’s left of it, stretches from Meyer's Falls, north of Syringa, to Colby, a small village north of Lovat. The early stages stretch from the eastern passes and edge very close to Victory’s territory.”
Samantha’s raised an eyebrow as I mentioned the reclusive nation to the north. Victory was a mystery to almost everyone on our side of its wall. The hermit-state had little contact with the outside world, save for its port city of Empress at the end of a long ferry ride from Lovat. Travelers weren’t permitted inside, and its southern border was patrolled by masked guards in soaring gun towers. A no-man’s-land extended a mile south from its wall, and anyone caught inside would be shot on sight and left as carrion for the eagles, hawks, and ravens.
Somehow, all manner of rumors trickled out from behind its thick wall. Some folks believe the nation living within is a utopia, untouched by greed, and the wall a device to keep out the sinful. It’s a nice thought, but I’ve met Victory traders, and they’re as touched by sin as any other caravaneers. Other stories go to opposite extremes, describing Victory as an authoritarian police state, secretly amassing an army that will someday break forth from its gates bent on conquest.
“How close?” Samantha wondered as she slipped beneath a pole of dried trout draped over a human merchant’s shoulders.
“Close enough to see the wall. Maybe not close enough to see a patrol.”
Samantha shuddered. “Are they real? The patrols?”
I nodded. “I’ve only seen them once and they were far from Victory. Near Grovedare, actually.”
“What were they doing? What did they look like?” she asked, ever the researcher.
I thought about this, trying to dredge up the memory. “I don’t know what they were doing. I didn’t go near them. What did they look like… well, they were a platoon of six, dressed in black leather head to toe, with masks hiding their faces. They wore the sun and crown symbol of Victory on their chests, otherwise I wouldn’t have known who they were.”
Samantha frowned.
“They didn’t threaten me,” I said. “Didn’t even acknowledge my existence. Don’t know if I wasn’t close enough or if I wasn’t worth their attention. I’m not sure, honestly. It was strange. That’s all I remember.”
“A lot of religious orders sport similar garments,” said Samantha. “I have heard of northern covens wearing suns and stars, and suns and bird, and suns and clouds—”
“You suggesting what I saw was some march-of-the-witches or something?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Just pointing out it might have been something other than a patrol from some elusive nation.”
We walked in silence for a few moments, letting the noises of the evening shoppers fill the space between us. The chatter of voices dealing in Strutten, the common tongue of the land. It was a pleasant sound, and it made the evening lovelier. It was also nice to inhale the warm air and not get a snoot full of dust.
I thought on what she said. For years I had considered the patrol to be something from Victory, but she could be right. She was probably right.
I cast a glance in her direction, and caught her brown eyes looking at me. She grinned and then looked away, suddenly interested in the goods hanging in a stall.
Every little thing about her can set me off. The way she tucks hair behind her ear, or how she’ll talk at length about a dead cult that once terrorized a corner of the territory, to the way she chews on the nail of her smallest finger when she’s puzzling over something. If she was anyone else, I would have rushed in, but I was still unsure how the Reunified church would react to a fellow like me making moves on a priestess. Probably poorly. Many are allowed to marry, even have children. But the Reunifieds frown on clergy fraternizing with anyone outside the church, especially without a ring and a promise.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you wanted to be back at Saint Mark’s by now. Had I known any of this would go down, I wouldn’t have—”
Samantha laughed, cutting me off, and smiled that smile. “You had no idea. I’m sure the seminary will find a replacement for my classes until I return. They have to be getting the same reports on the monochromes in Lovat that we’re getting. They know what’s going on. Even so, I wired the bishops a few days ago when the span closed. They’re aware.”
“This isn’t the way it usually goes.”
“The brothers and sisters at the priory don’t mind. Anyway, it seems every moment I step through the threshold I’m holding a lecture on this or that. Yesterday someone asked me to explain the hierarchy of the Firsts, as if that was a simple question with an easy and straightforward answer!”
She laughed and I laughed with her though I only knew a little about the theory. She had tried to explain it to me once and I got so lost that it all became a jumbled wash.
I finished my flatbread and threw the wrapping into an overstuffed trashcan that a pair of alley cats and a strung-out pitchfork addict were fighting over. That amiable silence fell between us again and I found myself mulling over the Broken Road.
I didn’t know a soul that had traversed it in recent memory. Even if I could convince my company that it was safe, it most likely wasn’t even passable. The Big Ninety was getting increasingly rough as time wore on and that had been a well-traveled road for generations. Who knows what years of neglect could do to a long abandoned route?
It was Samantha’s turn to break the silence. “So even if Victory isn’t the reason, what are the other stories? What am I missing? I doubt the patrols are enough to keep caravans away.”
“You’re right,” I said, keeping my eye open for another cart selling something else to munch. I could go for some noodles. If there was one nice thing about being stranded in a city, it was the food choices. “It’s more than just Victory. Really, it—”
“Depends who you ask,” Samantha parroted, with a titch of annoyance in her voice.
I laughed and shrugged. “Everyone has a reason. Probably the most obvious and likely is bandits. They’re a problem on the Big Ninety, but they’re an even bigger problem off the main thoroughfares. The Broken Road is a place for the less reputable merchants: slavers, pitch dealers, organ peddlers, outfit goons, smugglers, those types. The tales deviate from there though. I’ve heard tales of roving bands of cannibals. Some claim they come from a city full of them, a city not on any map.”
“A hidden city full of cannibals? Please,” Samantha said, rolling her eyes. “Stories about hidden cannibal cities exist in both Hasturian and Curwenite lore. Though I doubt the Hasturians give any weight to the tale anymore. Who knows about the Curwenites. The chaos faiths are… complicated. Their beliefs seem to shift around as much as their idols do. With both Hasturians and Curwenites active here, it’d make sense that a similar tale could figure in the local folklore.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t say I believe them.”
“I appreciate you letting me know. When we first set out, I felt so lost. It’s like Wensem, Hannah, you, even Taft—you all have your own language. It’s not something I am used to.”
“Well, you’re welcome. We’ll make a roader out of you yet,” I said and grinned.
She slowed, and then stopped and turned to face me.
“What is it?” I asked.
“What do you believe, Wal?” Her voice was laced with that tone that meant she was in priestess mode. She was serious. I looked down at my boots, and then at a hawker selling beads over her shoulder.
“I—I… Carter’s cross, I believe that my company won’t follow me down that road. I believe that superstition runs deeper in my crew than they’ll admit, and they’d rather sit around this dusty old town than risk that journey. I believe that my relationship with Shaler is tenuous at best, and I need to keep her from taking me before the caravan authority, or Wensem and I could lose our whole company. Broken Road or not, that’s what I believe.”
I flicked my eyes back at hers and swallowed the lump in my throat.
She studied me for a moment before nodding slowly, and continued down the street. What had just happened? I hobbled after her, the pace exacerbating the ache in my right leg.
When I caught up with her, it was like we had never stopped. She was still full of questions.“So, cannibals, bandits, and Victory patrols…” she let her voice drift off.
I relaxed. “There’s also tales of ghosts, spirits, spooks, and so on. The souls of the dead haunting laagers and raiding chuckwains. Fairy tale stuff. It’s garbage. Oh, there’s also the mist, that one is interesting.”
“The mist?”
“Not sure how to explain it. They say it's like a creeping fog that overtakes caravans. Folks get lost in it. End up hundreds of miles off course, or die in the mountains. Rangers come across them after the spring thaw. Whole wains full of food, clothing and supplies, but the caravan party is missing, their bodies found starved to death not even a mile away.”
“And what do you think?” she asked.
I thought for a moment and said, “Sounds like amateur mistakes leading t
o tragic consequences.”
We arrived at our boarding house and I hobbled up the stairs, my right leg stiff, my knee popping. When we got to the porch, I leaned against the railing, taking a breather.
Months earlier, during all the trouble in Lovat, I had fallen and dislocated my knee. I had been told to stay off it or it wouldn't heal right. So it didn't heal right.
“Look, please keep this between us. It’s bad enough with Taft talking about it, but Shaler’s hell-bent on getting to Lovat as soon as possible. If she got wind of the Broken Road, she’d have us out there before daybreak.”
“I won’t say anything,” Samantha promised.
I found myself wishing Applehome’s crossing hadn’t collapsed. It would have made things a lot easier, but between the military action at Grovedare and the Purity Movement using it as a catalyst to advance their own agenda, it left a lot of caravaneers stuck or out of work. Waiting out the standoff seemed like the best option. We might go broke in the meantime, but there wasn’t much more we could do.
Shaler might be persuaded to let me out of our contract, and maybe Bell Caravans could take up the route between Syringa and Hellgate in the meantime. I hadn’t been to the canyon city in a long while, and I had friends there whom I wouldn’t mind calling upon. It wasn’t the most lucrative work—traffic flows west, we always say—towards the spires of Lovat—but it would be work.
Rumor had it that Hellgate was getting some pretty decent restaurants as well.
My stomach growled again.
Samantha said something, and I turned to see her waiting for a reply.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t catch that. Lost in thought. What did you say?”
She paused and seemed to study my face.
“Nevermind,” she finally said.
I waited a beat. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” she smiled. “You get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I watched her leave, my eyes tracing the sway of her hip as she ascended the stairs to her room. By the Firsts, she was beautiful.
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